


Almost Sweet Music

by EridanAbbpora



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EridanAbbpora/pseuds/EridanAbbpora
Summary: A self-indulgent, Hozier-inspired angsty lil fic about my sad, sad D&D character Seraphine and the romantic misadventure she experiences when she decides to run from her problems.





	Almost Sweet Music

Since arriving in Vreowall, she’d had plenty of time to think. Thinking, unbeknownst to most, was something Blackquill felt she did best.

 

For example, she’d been thinking about architecture, and how the style of Inkwinter’s homes and manors varied from those in Horgsholt. She revelled in the differences between her own regional cuisines and those of Vreowall. She thought about how she missed home, and…

 

She thought about how much she didn’t miss home. She thought to herself, “I’ll keep a journal,” and when she bought a rather fine one later that day for three gold, she remembered that she was, for lack of a better term, shit at reading and writing.  


She’d have a few more weeks until the snow melted enough to reach the mountain pass where she intended to settle, build her own cozy cabin and think completely uninterrupted. That would give her a good few weeks to really knock out the basics of literacy.

 

It was a few nights later, comparing mug after mug of bitter ale, that she decided to try to do just that. She cracked open a book someone had given her at some point and… stared at the inside cover. This, as she liked to think, sometimes, she’d tell their children, is how they met.

 

She was beautiful, all curves and starlight, the firelight reflecting in her warm brown eyes and full, impossibly pink lips that seemed to be saying… oh, was she speaking? She tried to will herself out of her stupor, blinking forcefully a few times to shoo away the fairies she seemed to have accumulated through her countless tankards. “I’m… sorry?” Blackquill’s voice was rough, quiet, shaky from disuse these past few months. She cleared her throat, raised her eyebrows.  
  
“I said, _Rejecting the Sea_?” She pointed, and it took a moment for Blackquill to realize she was gesturing to the cover of her book. The woman sat down opposite her, with the grace and ease of a woman who was, perhaps, just enough drinks deep to be at her most confident. Though, truth be told, something told Blackquill that this woman didn’t need any sort of potent aid for her charm. “Gods, I wouldn’t know where to start with that one.” Blackquill felt something stir deep within her chest as the woman spoke. Something painful, but welcome. She put the book down onto the table, after wiping the free patch of wood down with a corner of her cloak.

 

“Neither would I, to be honest.” She earned a laugh from the beautiful stranger, which sent another pang of something down her spine, but in her state she struggled to pick out just what that something was. She smiled, the one her sister always told her would charm anyone - soft and bashful, in contrast to her decidedly harsh outward appearance - gazing up at the stranger from underneath her thick black hair.  


“It’s one of my favourite books.” She ran a hand through ruddy gold hair, and then held it out across the table. “Saja.” She gazed into Blackquill’s eyes - well, eye - as the taller woman took her hand, gently, in her own and kissed it. The gaze never faltered. Blackquill felt as though she’d been hit with some sort of silence-inducing spell, but found her mouth speaking of its own treacherous accord. What she assumed to have been an entire keg of Hobgoblin’s Kiss seemed to have done its job, she thought. “Seraphine. Never in my years did I think I’d glimpse Maeron herself, let alone speak to her in some seedy tavern in Horgsholt.”

 

This seemed to have worked, somehow, as Saja chuckled. “Ah, a Trachean! I was wondering where your accent was from.” She let her hand linger in Blackquill’s for a moment before retracting it and resting her cheek atop it. “I’m a schoolteacher here, for the sailors’ children. And you,” She eyed Blackquill, traveling from her long, unkempt curls to her eyepatch and the many scars tracing across her face, from her mantle to the heavy tunic that lay beneath. Blackquill felt her eyes linger a moment on her silver arm, a godscraft novelty she’d begrudgingly accepted after a run-in with a ravenous beast in some small provincial town, and felt herself unconsciously shift it, so it lay beneath the folds of her cloak. “I’d say you’re an adventurer. You’re running from something, or coming to best a dragon. Those are the only reasons anyone comes to Vreowall.” Blackquill only nodded, averting her gaze. She could feel her heart beating, fast and erratic. _How embarrassing_ , she thought, draining the last of the Hobgoblin’s Kiss from her tankard, and wiping her mouth with her metal arm. At this, she made unintentional eye contact with Saja, who stared at her, almost hungrily, biting her lip. Blackquill tried to calm herself, without making it look too obvious. After so many years, and still her heart fluttered so at even the slightest bit of attention from a beautiful woman. Though something deep within her nagged at her, she paid it no mind, letting the ale and the company take control. She stood from the table, dropping a pouch of gold in the midst of the empties and picking up her yet-unstarted book before walking to the other side of the table and offering a hand to Saja. “Why don’t you show me around, Saja?” The other woman smiled, blushing slightly - though it could have just been the drink - and took it, rising and linking arms with Blackquill as the two strolled out the door.

 

From there, things just fell into place. Bashfully, one morning, Blackquill explained her predicament to Saja; she found herself needing to write a letter to someone back home, but could not read or write. Saja smiled, then, and tucked some stray hairs back behind Blackquill’s ear. Who could ever say no to a lady in need? They spent their days practicing reading, writing, and composing - of course, between Saja’s classes - and their nights together, casting shadows in the lanternlight on the walls of Saja’s little house. The easy intimacy the two had helped to shush Blackquill’s inner nagging, though it proved harder when Saja would come home with pastries for them to split or new books to read, and Saja so loved pastries and books. Four-and-a-half weeks, they spent together, enjoying each other's company, until Blackquill found herself unable to fall asleep after one of their tumultuous nights. Attempting to confuse herself to sleep, she decided to attempt composing her letter in her head. _Dear friend,_ she’d start - no, too informal. _Old friend_? She made a face, wrapped herself in a fur, and walked over to Saja’s table, where her fine journal and new quills had been set. She picked one up, a rich red feather, dipped it in her new black ink, and began.

 

 _Trynwyse,_ it began, in handwriting both shaky and perplexingly elegant, _I don’t know where to start…_

 

 _I hope you are not mad at me for leaving without telling you. I hope you know that I had my reasons to go. Vreowall is very colld, more than I thoht it would be. But I think I’m happy here. I’m almost me again._  
_  
I met a girl. She’s very smart and very funny. She likes to eat sweets and read, and she plays jokes. Her eyes are like stars and she laughs like…_

 

A teardrop falls onto the page, smearing the fresh ink, and shaking Blackquill from her concentration. Her heart beat madly, a surge of the same pain she had felt before welling up within her chest. _Be still, my foolish heart,_ she pleaded. “Don’t ruin this on me...” She murmured, willing herself to continue.

 

 _She laughs like you... She’s almost you._ She chokes back a sob, resigning herself to cry silently, so as not to disturb her companion.

 

_I wanted to write this to you to tell you that I am in love with her but I am not… I miss you, Trynwyse. I thought I was getting along without you, but I’m not. I keep ~~pru~~ pretending shes you. I wake up every day and see you. I ~~tri~~ try not to call her your name. _

 

 _I am still in love with you._  


Tears fall onto the page, splattering and blotting the ink. Her shoulders heave, her hand shakes as she writes, until a voice calls to her, quietly, “Is everything alright?”

 

She laughs, bitterly, her reply steely. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” Her companion falls back asleep soon after, and Blackquill signs her name at the bottom of her letter, before rising from her seat and beginning to collect her things, few that there were. She has stalled long enough in leaving the city. Shouldering her pack, she casts a last, sad glance at Saja, sleeping soundly. Her heart ached.

 

When the morning came, Saja awoke to find no trace of Seraphine, save a scrap of paper on the table in scratchy, unsure hand.

 

_I am sorry, Saja._

 

She sits back down in her bed, unable to process what has transpired. In the fireplace, the remains of a once-red feather still smoulder, surrounded by new ash.


End file.
